Page 25 of Fatal Bonds

“I’m just looking through—wait, I think I found it. Holy shit.” Another long pause stretches between us. “This is definitely it.”

Relief rushes through me, and I release the breath I didn’t even know I was holding. “Good. Get the pictures and get?—”

“What do you think you’re doing?”

Ice floods my veins at the familiar sound of Emiliano Costanzo’s smooth voice, his accent that makes him sound more distinguished and professional—a perfect cover for the monster that hides beneath his carefully manicured mask. He doesn’t sound happy as the door closes behind him with unnecessary force, and something thunks.

Fuck. Did Lindsey get caught? Is she in trouble?I need to get her out of there. I’m halfway across the bathroom as panic forms an iron grip around my chest.What was I thinking?I put Lindsey in a very dangerous situation, and now that it’s too late to abort the mission, I’m realizing my instincts to protect her are far more intense than I had anticipated. They’re overriding my desire to get this information—even if it could be the key to destroying Emiliano. If I go in there, it will blow our cover, but I need to get Lindsey out of there. She’s not safe with him. I never should have risked it.

“Sorry, I was just admiring your library.”

Lindsey’s voice pulls me up short, and I pause with my hand on the bathroom door as I wait to hear what happens next. If she can recover from her tight spot, then my barging in on them will only put her in more danger. But if Emiliano suspects anything, I need to intervene.

11

LINDSEY

The man before me is the picture of sophistication—a deep-navy Italian suit over a crisp salmon-colored dress shirt and metallic silver paisley tie. His olive complexion and Roman nose would tell me he’s definitely Italian, even without the smooth, rich accent. The crow’s feet around his eyes and considerable gray in his dark hair would tell me he must be nearing sixty, but he wears his age well enough to earn the title of silver fox. His dark eyes glint as he assesses me openly, and I hold my breath as I wonder if he’ll buy my lie. The silence crackling from my earpiece is deafening, and suddenly, all I want to hear is a word of assurance from Maks. But I told him to shut up, and now that he’s doing what I asked, I’m paying the price.

“It’s a beauty isn’t it?” the silver fox says, softly closing the office door behind him as he steps into the room. “They’re first additions, most of them. I collect them on my travels.”

The hair raises on the back of my neck at his cool composure, and I suppress a shiver. That was a close call. “It’s wonderful. I couldn’t stay away. Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop.”

“No need to apologize. It’s there to be appreciated,” he says, striding confidently toward me. “Only, I’ll ask that you not take any of the books off the shelf. Some are quite old and require a delicate touch.”

“Of course,” I agree, trying to hide my breathlessness as my pulse continues to race.

“Emiliano Costanzo,” he says, extending his hand to me. “I’m the owner and founder of Costanzo Realty Investments.”

His hand is cool and soft, so different from Maks’s warm calloused one. The involuntary comparison makes me wonder why Maks want this man dead so badly. To me, he seems perfectly polite—even when he caught me looking where I shouldn’t and I’m sure my palms are sweaty with nerves.

“It’s an honor to meet you. I, uh, really admire your company and would love the opportunity to intern here.” I feel like I’m back in college and interviewing for my first real job with all the adrenaline pounding through my system and making my hands shake.

“Well then, let’s get started, shall we? Miss…?”

“Oh, right.” I laugh nervously, buying time as I try to recall the name Maks had me say at least a hundred times over the past week, but I’m so jittery, my mind went completely blank.

“Bethany Stewart.” Maks’s voice fills my ear, his low, gruff tone astonishing reassuring, and I jump on the name.

“Bethany Stewart,” I repeat. “Sorry. I guess I’m a little flustered.”

Emiliano’s smile is smug, his eyes glimmering with amusement and some underlying emotion that raises goosebumps on my arms. “Don’t worry, Miss Stewart. You’re not the first.”

He gestures with one hand toward the seating area, letting the other rest lightly on the small of my back, and the guiding touch makes my skin crawl. Masking my shudder, I smooth my skirt down my thighs and step away from him, leading the way from his wall of first-edition books back to the imposing desk that occupies a considerable amount of his corner office.

“Please, sit,” he offers. “Would you like some water?”

What I would like is to get the hell out of here, but I need to make my exit carefully if I don’t want to give him another reason to be suspicious. “Yes. Thank you.”

He turns to the wet bar along one wall and pours me a glass from the pitcher before returning to hand it to me. His fingers are covering enough of the glass that I’ll have to touch him in order to accept it, and as I brush against his hand, his dark eyes flick up to meet mine invitingly.

“So, tell me, Miss Stewart. What makes you so interested in my company?” Rather than take a seat behind his desk, like I expected, Emiliano steps back to lean against it, minimizing the obstructions between us and maintaining a position where he has to look down at me. It’s a power move—as is the way he braces his palms against the desk and crosses his ankles in a nonchalant posture.

Is it just me, or is he trying to emphasize his significance while getting me to flatter him?I’m overthinking things. It’s a standard interview question. If I want to pass this off as a real interview, it’s time to dig deep and sell this. I might not know a lot about real estate, but I do know a good amount about marketing, so I’ll steer the conversation in that direction. “Honestly, your marketing strategy. You’ve managed to make a brand name that everyone in Chicago knows and trusts. I believe good marketing is the key to business success, and I want to learn from the best.”

Emiliano’s eyebrows lift in surprise, and he nods as if my answer meets his approval. “And you would be able to make the internship fit around your class schedule?”

“Absolutely. I’m in my last semester, so the load is easier, and I’ll get credit for the work I do for you in place of a class.” I’m hitting my stride, the details of my alias coming back to me now that I’m fairly certain I’m out of the woods.

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